


More Moments

by pulangaraw



Series: F [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:03:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A sort-of continuation of "Four Moments". It might still grow. :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. GLITTER

**Author's Note:**

> A sort-of continuation of "Four Moments". It might still grow. :)

"No. Sherlock, just. No. I'm drawing a line here." John almost stomped his foot as well.

"John, if we are to be successful, we need to blend in." Sherlock was holding the offending object out to him. John took a step back, just to be on the safe side.

"I'm sure we'll be blending in just fine without-" he gestured, "This."

"It will look good on you." Sherlock somehow managed to sound reasonable saying it.

"No. When I agreed to this, there was no mention of wearing a glittery..." John searched for the right word, but eventually had to settle on: "Shirt. I have my pride."

"But that's exactly the point. We're going to Pride. Everybody will be wearing something rather outrageous. If you go like this," his gesture encompassed John's blue jeans, grey t-shirt and closed, sensible shoes, "you'll stick out like a sore thumb. And also, you won't fit."

John raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Sherlock pouted. "I've planned an ensemble."

"You mean you're going to wear a matching shirt?" John could hardly believe it.

"Not exactly..." Sherlock hedged.

John narrowed his eyes. "Okay. You dress up in what _you_ are going to wear and if I see your point, I'll... wear this. Even thought I'll probably live to regret it."

Sherlock beamed. "Deal."

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock knocked on John's bedroom door, then stepped in.

John stared.

Sherlock was... He was - outrageous wasn't even going to cover it. He was dressed in a long strapless dress made from the same silvery-glittering material as the shirt he wanted John to wear. He was wearing a bright red wig - hair falling in curls over his shoulders, not-quite-garish make-up and even fake red nails. Silver pumps completed the picture.

Despite the ridiculousness of his costume, Sherlock looked... almost pretty. The make-up accentuated his high cheekbones, the eyeshadow emphasising his already captivating eyes even more. And his mouth... John swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, and had to remind himself that they were about to embark on a - what appeared to be - rather dangerous case, or he would have grabbed Sherlock and kissed that deep red lipstick right off those lush lips.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Gimme a moment."

Yes, he was very likely going to regret this, but he really couldn't accompany Sherlock in his current outfit. And there was no way he _wasn't_ going.


	2. CANAL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherlock almost drowns when he falls into a canal.

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John splutters as he drags himself - and his still only half-conscious flatmate - up the steps. They are both soaking wet and Sherlock can call himself lucky that John had lagged behind, re-tying a shoelace, otherwise he'd sure as hell be dead now. Hit over the head and drowned in a canal in bloody Amsterdam. Like a rat.

He dumps Sherlock onto the pavement, as soon as they're off the steps and away from the edge of the canal wall. Sherlock lies quietly for a few moments and John's about to start worrying, when he shudders, turns to the side and retches. John holds him, while Sherlock gets rid of all the excessive canal water in his stomach and lungs - and John would have to figure out how to get him a course of broad-spectrum antibiotics asap, because who knew what was in that water. He should probably get one for himself too, considering how much of the stuff he swallowed himself while he was trying to keep them both over water.

When Sherlock has calmed down somewhat John checks his head. The guy who'd bludgeoned him with the baseball bat had looked like someone who knew how to swing such a thing for maximum effect. If Sherlock hadn't stumbled that same moment - and John still wasn't sure if it had been accident or on purpose, but he'd probably find out soon enough - the blow would definitely have killed him. He finds a rather large bump on the back of Sherlock's head, but luckily no blood. They'd have to get an x-ray soon, to make sure there was not skull fracture or anything worse lurking beneath that bump.

Right now, though, their first priority is to get off the street. Whoever tried to kill Sherlock might be back any moment. John changes position, carefully levers Sherlock into an upright position, ready to be pulled to his feet.

"Sherlock, can you stand? We've got to get out of here." John places himself strategically underneath Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock grunts, but responds to the question by getting his feet under himself. With John's help he's able to stand up.

"Okay, good. Let's go find a cab."

"Gotta find 'e letters..." Sherlock slurs, tries to move away from John.

John holds on tight. "You've got to get yourself looked at first. You almost drowned and you have at least a concussion. No letters tonight." He says sternly.

Sherlock sways. "Th' count..."

John closes his eyes for a moment, tries to think it through. "I'll make you a deal. I get you to a hospital to be checked out and then I'll go and get the letters. But you've got to stay at the hospital."

Sherlock shakes his head, then winces. "Too dangerous..."

"Then the count will have to live without getting his letters back." John starts moving towards one of the main streets, hoping they'll find a cab there.

"Irene..." Sherlock mumbles, but lets John drag him along without resistance.

By the time John gets back to the house that had been their destination earlier, Irene and the letters are long gone. John can't say he cares much. All that counts is that Sherlock is going to be alright.


	3. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marrakech and shelves

_Gift_   
(English, noun) present  
(German, noun) poison, venom

 

"What the fuck!" John _didn't_ squawk.

Sherlock looked up languidly from his place on the sofa. "John?"

John pointed. "There's a snake. A fucking huge snake on the shelf over the fireplace."

"Yes?" Sherlock couldn't have sounded more bored.

"A huge snake," John repeated. "Alive. In our flat."

Sherlock limply waved a hand. "It was a gift."

"A gift?" John still stood in the middle of the room, where he had stopped as soon as he'd seen the snake. Which was looking at him now, swaying it's head slightly. Probably thinking about the best way to kill John.

"Yes. From a client. She'd lost a ring that was very dear to her and I found it. It wasn't the most mentally taxing case I've had, but one takes what one gets."

"A snake." John felt the need to reiterate. "Who in their right mind would think a deadly animal makes a good present?"

"A Marrakechi, apparently."

"A what?" John still didn't dare move. The snake was now slowly uncoiling itself and sliding down the side of the fireplace. John felt the very strong urge to run, but didn't dare move, in case it made the snake angry. It already looked hungry.

"The client was from Marrakech. Also known as the 'Red City'. An important and former imperial city in Morocco. The city of Marrakech is the capital of the mid-southwestern economic region of Marrakech-Tensift-Al Haouz." Sherlock elaborated. John wasn't quite sure if he was being mocked.

The snake was now halfway across the floor on its way to where John was standing. "Sherlock," John said, eyes fixed on the snake and its slow progress.

When Sherlock didn't answer, John risked a glance in his direction. He was still lying on the sofa, watching the snake with an amused expression. It had almost reached John.

John felt cold sweat break out all over his skin. He hated snakes, especially big snakes that could squeeze the life out of an unsuspecting army doctor whose only worry, only minutes ago, had been what to eat for dinner. He wasn't sure how long he could remain still, once the snake reached him. He could feel his muscles twitching, every fibre of his being screamed at him to get away.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement from the sofa and a second later Sherlock had grabbed the snake behind the head and around the body and lifted it off the floor. He took a step back, bringing some distance between the snake and John.

John took a deep breath and willed his muscles to relax.

"I am sorry, John." Sherlock said, sounding sincere. "I had no idea you were suffering from ophidiophobia."

"I'm not," John said, sullenly. "I just don't like them."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I will just put it back in its basket, then."

John nodded and finally dared to move. He sank onto his armchair. "Please tell me you aren't intending to keep it," he said when he felt a little calmer.

"I hadn't thought about it." Sherlock seemed to consider the option.

"Let me make it easy for you," John said, "Either the snake goes or I do."

Sherlock flopped himself back onto the sofa. "I will have to think about that," he said, tone dry, though the creases around his eyes gave him away.

"While you do that, you can make me a tea," John answered, keeping his tone just as dry.

He expected Sherlock to argue, but instead he jumped back onto his feet and went to make said tea.

"I'm not your housekeeper," drifted in from the kitchen a few seconds later. But there was no venom in it.


End file.
